The Brother of Mercy by John Greenleaf Whittier

Piero Luca, known of all the town As the gray porter by the Pitti wall Where the noon shadows of the gardens fall, Sick and in dolor, waited to lay down His last sad burden, and beside his mat The barefoot monk of La Certosa sat.

Unseen, in square and blossoming garden drifted, Soft sunset lights through green Val d'Arno sifted; Unheard, below the living shuttles shifted Backward and forth, and wove, in love or strife, In mirth or pain, the mottled web of life But when at last came upward from the street Tinkle of bell and tread of measured feet, The sick man started, strove to rise in vain, Sinking back heavily with a moan of pain. And the monk said, "T is but the Brotherhood Of Mercy going on some errand good Their black masks by the palace-wall I see. " Piero answered faintly, "Woe is me! This day for the first time in forty years In vain the bell hath sounded in my ears, Calling me with my brethren of the mask, Beggar and prince alike, to some new task Of love or pity, -- haply from the street To bear a wretch plague-stricken, or, with feet Hushed to the quickened ear and feverish brain, To tread the crowded lazaretto's floors, Down the long twilight of the corridors, Midst tossing arms and faces full of pain. I loved the work: it was its own reward.